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by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Retirement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-06 12:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14057349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's been nine years since Yuri Plisetsky made his senior debut into the world of figure skating. He's had a strong career full of excitement, surprises, and high medal counts. According to all records, Yuri Plisetsky is on top of the world.Now, he's decided to retire.As controversial as the decision is, he's adamant. This is his last season on the ice. There's nothing else coming, no more surprises, no more world records. Yuri Plisetsky is finished.





	1. The Project

I can feel my heart pounding as I stare down at my watch. I’m fifteen minutes early, of course. There’s no reason to panic yet. I try to take a deep breath. It’s just an interview, just a starting point. They’ve already contracted me. Firing me now would just be a waste of time.  
Right?

  
I turn on my camera and decide to take a picture of the door since I’m waiting so patiently outside of it. I focus my shot on the slender gold plaque, the one with Nikiforov’s name engraved on it in tall, distinguished letters. It’ll be my first photo for the project, right outside the office of my first interviewee. It should be perfect.

  
The patchy fluorescent lighting isn’t helping.

  
I pull a small penlight from my camera bag and click it on. I hold it in my teeth, my scarf wrapped around the front of it to dampen the light just enough. I refocus my lens and take a few shots, experimenting with the exact angle of the lighting.

  
Eventually, I hear footsteps, accompanied by a soft laugh.

  
“Do you want me to hold something?”

  
I shake my head, quickly taking the light out of my teeth and tucking it back into my bag. I let my camera hang around my neck and hold out my hand.

  
“Kara Markov,” I say. “It’s an honor, sir.”

  
He just laughs as he shakes my hand. “No need for titles here, Victor will do just fine,” he says, turning to unlock his office door. “Markov, you said? That’s a Russian name, no?”

  
He’s aged a little since retirement, but not all of it is obvious. The most visible change is the hair- he’s let it grow out again. Today it’s in a sort of sloppy knot today, a pen tucked behind his ear. He’s changed, no doubt about it. But he’s still the same living legend that shaped Russian figure skating, and he still terrifies me.

  
I nod. “We have Russian roots, my grandparents were born in Moscow, I think. Somehow they ended up in Germany, though.”

  
Nikiforov opens the office door and leads me inside. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a chair. “You’ll fit right in here among the Nikiforovs and Plisetskys and the like. Mila will probably adore you.”

  
I laugh a little, despite the fact that I can still feel my heartbeat in my ears. Victor Nikiforov seems nice, of course. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a famous Russian athlete who could probably throw me halfway across his country if he wanted to.

  
“You look tense,” he says. “I suppose that’s probably my fault, though I’m not entirely sure what I can do about that other than assure you that I’m really not a scary person and I haven’t made a skater cry in at least three days now…”

  
He trails off, looking at me for some sort of acknowledgment.

  
I freeze.

  
“That was a joke,” he says dryly. “But anyways. Let's talk.”

 

He pulls a pad of paper from his bag, taking the pen out from behind his ear.

  
“So, Miss Markov,” he says, starting to write. “You’re here to do a sort of compilation project, writing and photography, to detail Yuri Plisetsky’s last year on the ice?”

  
I nod.

  
“Alright, you’re going to have to give me more than that. I’m a skater, not a writer, we speak different art forms. Talk to me about this vision of yours.”  
I take a deep breath and force myself to meet his eyes. They really are striking eyes…

  
“Well,” I say hesitantly. “Yuri Plisetky’s kind of symbolic. His retirement marks the end of an era if you know what I mean. He’s the last great figure skater trained primarily by Yakov Feltsman. I mean, there were others, sure, but Yuri Plisetsky was different, you know?”

  
He nods. “I know. And trust me, I’m more than aware of the end of his era.”

  
“In a way, it’s also about you,” I say, casually sliding my recorder out of my pocket. “This is the start of your era as well. How do you plan to continue the legacy?”

  
For a second, Nikiforov’s eyes dart between me and the recorder in my hand. I'm a little nervous about his reaction, but then he just laughs.

  
“That was smooth,” he says. “I had this conversation going in my direction and you just flipped it straight back on me… good job. Turn that recorder on before I answer, though, so I don’t have to repeat myself.”

  
I smile as I power up the device. He doesn’t seem mad, thankfully. He just seems… amused, happy even. I start the recording and give him a nod.

  
“Well,” he says. “Yakov Feltsman was a wonderful coach. He trained all of us- Babicheva, Plisetsky, Popovich- we all turned out alright. Yakov knew exactly what he was doing. We all gave him a hard time, don’t get me wrong. But we adored him. And I really think that deep down inside he adored us. We were like his rebellious teenage grandchildren. Except some of us stayed rebellious well into our thirties. But hey. Who really cares?”

  
He laughs at himself a little before continuing.

  
“It’s still strange, coming here and realizing he isn’t head coach anymore. It’s even more strange realizing that somehow I’m the one that ended up taking his place. It’s been what, five years now? I’m still in denial. I’m not Yakov Feltsman, not by a long shot. I’ll probably never come close. And besides, it isn’t really my era, either. This is our era- mine, Yuuri’s, Mila’s… We’re a team. Even I’m not crazy enough to take this on alone.”

  
“Do you think Yuri Plisetsky will end up coaching here as well?”

  
He pauses, thinking a little. “That’s entirely his decision. To be honest, I’m not sure he’ll want to. He has a lot of complicated reasons for leaving that I’m not really at liberty to describe to you. But to make my answer simple for you, if he wants to come coach, I won’t hesitate to take him.”

  
I nod. There are plenty of rumors drifting around about Plisetsky’s retirement. Most point to one of two sources- Victor Nikiforov or Otabek Altin. Plisetsky’s still skating competitively, his skills have stayed sharp over the years. He’s not retiring solely because of age. Most journalists assume he and Nikiforov had too many differences in opinion and too much history to work effectively. The handful that don’t blame Nikiforov point to Altin, who retired two years ago. The two have been officially dating for a while now, and some suggest that Plisetsky’s retirement is in preparation for whatever comes next.

  
I don’t really know which theory I believe, but I do know that I want to find the truth. Sadly, Nikiforov doesn't seem ready to share it with me.

  
“So,” I say, breaking the silence. “What can you tell me about Plisetsky’s upcoming season?”

  
Nikiforov looks relieved. “Well, we’re looking at the Cup of China and Skate America. We’ve got about a week left before we fly to Beijing, hopefully everything will be ready by then. We’re still waiting on a costume to come in, but I’ve been assured it’s coming tomorrow. Yuri has really strong programs this year. He chose his music for a reason, he’s really connected to it. He had a pretty strong role in the choreography process as well. He did most of it on his own, actually, with a little help from my Yuuri. He’s a lot more invested in his programs this year, they’re more personal. And I think that’ll add a new dimension to his performance that we haven’t quite seen before.”

  
“You didn’t choreograph Plisetsky’s programs?”

  
Nikiforov laughs a little. “No. I mean, they asked for advice in some spots, I chimed in a little. But I didn’t choreograph the program. Yuri Plisetsky and I have known each other for a very long time. We’ve got a lot in common, sure. But we’re also incredibly different. I know his style, he knows mine. They don’t mix well. I still do choreography, of course. I coach some of the other younger skaters and we have a lot of fun. But as a rule of thumb, I stay out of Yuri’s skating unless he asks me.”  
  
I think for a minute, trying to decide where I want to take the conversation. If there’s tension between Nikiforov and Plisetsky, I want to know about it. I just need to find a good way to get the information out into the open.

  
“Is there a reason you don’t coach Yuri Plisetsky as well?”

  
“Well, to put it simply, he didn’t ask me.” He laughs a little before continuing his story. “Yakov gave us a warning, you know. He told us he was thinking about retirement. It was early in the process, we had no idea who’d replace him. But he encouraged Yuri to start looking for a new coach, someone he could work with, someone he trusted. Yuuri- my Yuuri, Katsuki, that is- had been retired for less than a year at that point. He’d done a bit of freelance consulting here and there, but nothing too serious. And so Yuri asked him.”

  
He thinks for a minute, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say.

  
“They’ve always had an interesting relationship,” he says cautiously. “I don’t know how to explain it because I’m not sure I really understand it. But they understand each other and they work really well together. Honestly, they’ve done great things. I couldn’t be more proud.”

  
He actually seems genuine, not bitter at all. It surprises me. It probably shouldn't, Nikiforov and Plisetsky don't talk about their relationship with the press, nothing’s been confirmed. But statement or no statement, the rumors are more than prevalent.

  
Nikiforov opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but decides against it. He thinks for a moment, and I stay silent, curiously waiting for whatever he’s trying to say.

  
“Miss Markov,” he says hesitantly, like he’s thinking about every syllable as it comes out of his mouth. “I’m very aware of the rumors that are circulating at the moment. I’m sure you are, too. I know leading questions when I see them. I’ve probably been dealing with press longer than you’ve been alive. But let me assure you, Yuri Plisetsky is a wonderful friend of mine and I harbor no negative feelings towards him.”

  
I nod, unsure of how to respond. Nikiforov slowly stands up and pulls a folder off of his desk.

  
“You’re here for Plisetsky, yes? Let's talk about Plisetsky.”

  
He launches into information, way too much for me to ever remember. Thankfully my recorder’s still on and picking up every word. He talks about Plisetsky’s old programs, the progression of his style. He takes notes of his jumps, the way his footwork has evolved. He points out specific elements that can be contributed to Yakov, some that point to Katsuki. He breaks down technical scores, pcs averages, a lot of math that looks complicated and hard to understand.

  
To summarize all of it, he thinks Plisetsky is great.

  
He also thinks Plisetsky will win.

  
Eventually, a knock comes at the door. Nikiforov stops talking, leaving his unfinished comment about Kenjirou Minami hanging in the air.

  
“Yes?”

  
The voice on the other side of the door just laughs. “My hands are full, open the door.”

  
Nikiforov just sighs. He stands up and pulls the door open, revealing an extremely recognizable Japanese man laden down by a few bags, a tray of coffee cups, and a couple binders. Nikiforov takes the tray of coffee from Katsuki and starts to examine the contents.

  
He pulls out a tall cup and hands it to me, setting the other two cups on his desk. Katsuki is in the process of setting his bags down and shedding his winter coat.

  
“I didn’t know what you liked,” he says apologetically, “so I decided to play it safe.”

  
“No, it’s fine,” I say, examining the label on the cup. It has a few circles blackened in, my name written on the label in tall black letters.

  
_Kara._

  
“How did you…” I trail off, still staring at the name in confusion.

  
Katsuki laughs. “Well, we did email back and forth quite a bit. I remembered you were coming in today, remembered the signature on the emails… it’s not that difficult.”

  
“I forgot,” Nikiforov mutters under his breath.

  
“You forget what day of the week it is. But honestly, dear, it’s not a big deal. I pick up coffee for everyone in the building. This office is just my last stop.”

  
I nod, trying out the drink. Katsuki walks back behind Nikiforov’s desk and starts to thumb through some of the paperwork, claiming one of the coffee cups as his own.

  
“Anyways,” he says as he works, “I’m Yuuri Katsuki, I coach here.”

  
Nikiforov almost chokes on his coffee.

  
“Allow me to translate,” he says. “That’s Yuuri Katsuki. He’s an Olympic gold medalist, coach to Yuri Plisetsky, and he runs a significant portion of our operation here.”

  
“Well considering the company I’m in...” Katsuki says, sounding slightly irritated.

  
Nikiforov rolls his eyes. “Anyways,” he says, turning back to me. “Where were we?”

  
“Kenjirou Minami?” I prompt, earning a small laugh from Katsuki.

  
Nikiforov smiles. “Ah, Minami. He was always so adorable… still is honestly, hasn’t grown out of it. But he’s really talented, and he’s probably Yuri’s top competition. He’ll be the one we have to worry about.”

  
“Do you have history with Minami?”

  
Katsuki chuckles again but lets Nikiforov answer. “When this Yuuri and I were still skating, Minami hadn’t really taken off yet. But Minami happened to idolize a certain figure skater in this room, and I’ll give you hint, it wasn’t me.”

  
“He’s a good kid, great skater,” Katsuki says. “We still talk every so often, get lunch when we’re both in Japan. I actually used to consult on his programs, before I started working with Yurio of course.”

  
“Are you worried about him?”

  
Katsuki sighs. “I’m worried about everything. Minami’s not an exception. But I have faith in Yurio, he’ll be fine.”

  
I nod, trying to decide exactly what to ask.

  
Thankfully, Katsuki starts talking before I have to.

  
“Speaking of Yurio, he’s probably waiting for me.” He grabs a few papers from Nikiforov’s desk, still holding on to his coffee cup. He leaves most of his things in the office but grabs a binder on his way out.

  
For a minute, I stare at the door, wondering if I should follow.

  
Nikiforov just laughs. “Go,” he says. “You’re here for Plisetsky, not me.”

  
I nod, thanking him as I rush out towards the rink.

  
Sure enough, Plisetsky is there. He’s skating laps, still warming up. Katsuki is perched by the side of the rink, watching intently as he finishes his coffee. Since neither of them are in a good place to answer questions, I decide to take pictures. I set my bag down on a bench, powering up my camera.

  
I start with Plisetsky, trying to capture both the expressions on his face and his posture as he skates. I take a few of Katsuki, he makes an easy target. I take a few closer shots of Plisetsky’s face, a few longer shots of the rink. The lighting’s actually surprisingly good. Once I get the images into photoshop and make a few adjustments, they’ll be great.

  
Eventually I let myself out of the rink. I’ve gotten more than enough pictures and I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to talk to Plisetsky later. I make my way down the hall towards one of the other rinks, but I don’t quite get there.

  
I’m intercepted by a younger boy, maybe seventeen. He’s in decently good shape, wearing an oversized jacket and sweats. He’s more than a few inches taller than me, with dark brown hair that almost reaches his chin. He’s probably a skater, judging by physique, meaning we'll probably be talking more as the season goes on. Might as well introduce myself now.

  
“Hi,” I say cheerily. “I’m Kara Markov.”

  
The boy gives me a charismatic smile. “You one of Mila’s new additions? I think I’d remember seeing you around here before.”

  
I shake my head. “I’m press, here to document Yuri Plisetsky’s last season.”

  
“Damn. I wonder how much Vic paid him to agree to that.”

  
I shrug. “Hopefully enough to get me some good content.”

  
The boy laughs, holding out his hand. “I’m Anton Denikin, I skate here. Word to the wise about Yuri Plisetsky. Flattery will get you everywhere with Vic, you’ve probably figured that out. But Yurio will bite your throat out.”

  
I actually laugh, unsure of how to reply. I make a mental note to about Plisetsky, though.

  
“So like how long have you been here? It can’t have been long, right? I would’ve seen you or something.”

  
“I got here an hour or so ago. Today’s the first day of the project.”

  
The boy- Anton- flashes another smile. “That explains it. Welcome to our slightly crazy ice rink. We’ve got a few old legends, but we’re mostly just half-rate prima donnas who get a kick out of wearing glitter.”

  
There's something about the way he says it… I laugh a little. “And which one are you, Mr. Denikin?”

  
“Well, Miss Markov,” he says with a wink, “I'm the most fabulous prima donna there is.” He gives an overly dramatic bow. “Here, let me give you a tour.”

  
I nod, still slightly laughing, and he gestures for me to follow him. He walks back to one of the smaller rinks, pushing the doors open.

  
“This is the main rink,” he says. “Usually open to the public. A lot of practices are held here, with the exceptions of important people like Yurio and Tasiya who like to hide out in the back rinks like social hermits. The redhead over on the side is Mila Babicheva, she coaches womens. She’s pretty badass, but also a sweetheart. She definitely falls into the legend category. The others drifting around here are figure skaters, some juniors some seniors. Most of us train under Vic and Mila, Yuuri has a few of them.”

  
He starts pointing out a few specific skaters- top juniors, strong seniors, people to avoid. I know I’ll never remember all the names. They all fall into the “glitter loving prima donna” category, according to Denikin. 

  
Eventually, we leave the rink and wander the halls some more. He shows me a few side entrances, the different breakrooms, where the vending machines are. We find Babicheva’s office and Katsuki’s, though apparently Katsuki’s never really there.

  
“He’s usually either at one of the rinks or wherever Vic is,” Denikin explains casually. “You can look here, but you probably won't have much luck. This room is honestly more storage than anything.”

  
I nod, starting to think things over. Denikin seems nice, he might make a valuable ally. If anything, he could fill me in on rink dynamics and answer some of my basic questions. He’s probably not too biased, and it would help to get a better baseline understanding of the way things work at the rink.

  
“Can I ask you a sort of strange question?”

  
He flashes me a smile. “Anything for the lovely Miss Markov.”

  
I take a deep breath, trying to stay serious. “Katsuki and Nikiforov,” I say. “What’s the exact definition of that relationship? Before I say something wrong and mess things up?”

  
Denikin just laughs. “Oh, Vic and Yuuri… honestly, you could say almost anything and they wouldn’t care. But to answer your question, they’ve been together for nine years now. I might be wrong. Dates are hard. But it’s been a while. They live together, adore each other, they’ve been engaged for like, ever. But this is Russia and we have laws. So they’re technically not married. But they’re not exactly leaving each other anytime soon.”

  
I nod. “Makes sense. The same applies to Altin and Plisetsky?”

  
Denikin rolls his eyes. “Nobody knows what applies to Altin and Plisetsky. They've been dating on and off for like four years? They're bipolar. Altin will be up here in a few weeks, I think. He's chill, I'd ask him. Don't ask Plisetsky.”

  
“Why do I get the feeling that there are a lot of questions I shouldn't ask Plisetsky?”

  
Denikin laughs. “Because Plisetsky's the angriest one here, not that he has much competition. He's a sweetheart, though, under all the pent-up rage.”

  
“Do you know why he's retiring?”

  
Denikin pauses, not laughing anymore. “That’s complicated, Markov. I can't explain it to you.”

  
There's silence for a minute. Denikin thinks for a minute before his face lights up.

  
“Well, we still have a couple tour stops left, we can't stand outside Yuuri’s office forever.”

  
And just like that, the tension is broken. We make our way back towards Nikiforov’s office, where Denikin stops to comment.

  
“This is where Vic lives,” he says. “He looks a little sketchy but he's really the least intimidating person here. He used to be great, sure, but between you and me he's getting a little older and he's not-”

  
Nikiforov’s irritated voice cuts him off. “Anton, your quad sal won't fix itself!”

  
Denikin laughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my quad sal is _fabulous_.”

  
“Apparently not fabulous enough to win Rostelecom.”

  
Denikin sighs dramatically. “Well, Miss Markov, it’s been a pleasure, but that would be my cue to go practice so I can _kick ass at NHK_.”

  
He says the last few words louder than the others, over-pronouncing every syllable at the closed office door.

  
“Arrogance doesn’t suit you,” Nikiforov mutters as Denikin walks off.

  
He waves at me as he goes, muttering something under his breath about salchows and Moscow.

  
I make my way back to the rink where Plisetsky’s practicing. Katsuki’s still standing by the side of the rink, watching intently. I silently approach, eyes darting between the two men on the rink.

  
Katsuki notices my approach, of course, and greets me with a smile.

  
“We’re working on his short program,” he says quietly. “At this point, the choreography is set in stone, all of his jumps are strong. We’re just running over it again for things like fluidity and expression.”

  
I nod, trying to take in every detail of the performance. I know I’ll be seeing it again, probably multiple times considering he still has months before retirement. I know it’ll probably get better as he becomes more familiar with it. But there’s something about the way he’s skating it now, practically alone in the ice rink, the slow aria flowing from the speakers…

  
I don’t know what he’s skating for, but whatever it is, I feel it.

  
After the music ends, Plisetsky glides over to the edge of the rink. Katsuki makes a few quick comments- some compliments and others not. Plisetsky counters a bit of the feedback but seems to accept the majority of it.

  
The general concern seems to be his presentation score. According to Katsuki, Plisetsky’s always been a strong technical skater, but if he doesn’t tap into his emotions, he’ll be opening a window for Minami to skate right into. He makes other comments, too, most of which make no sense to me. Plisetsky seems to understand, though.

  
After their discussion ends, Katsuki gestures to me.

  
“This is Kara Markov, by the way,” he says. “She’s the journalist we were telling you about.”

  
“Yuri Plisetsky,” the Russian skater says curtly. “I’m really only doing this because Victor promised he’d keep his hands off of my exhibition at GPF.”

  
Katsuki sighs. “ _He didn’t_.”

  
Plisetsky just laughs. “He promised your hands would stay off of it, too, Katsudon, so watch yourself.”

  
“Whatever you’re thinking, I’m just going to encourage you to take it down by like three notches. Or maybe thirty.”

  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I have phenomenal judgment.”

  
Katsuki mutters something under his breath about canons and strobe lights that sounds slightly bitter. Whatever story lies behind that, I’ve decided I don’t want to know.

  
“So,” I say, trying to salvage the conversation. “What is this exhibition skate?”

  
“It’s sort of like a showcase,” Katsuki says. “All the grand prix skaters will perform one after the actual event. It’s more of a fun thing, a chance to show more personality.”

  
“It’ll be my last skate,” Plisetsky says solemnly. “So it’s important.”

  
It’s impossible to miss the tension. It’s almost suffocating. Katsuki shakes his head in silence but doesn’t speak. I’m almost afraid to move.

  
Eventually, Plisetsky silently glides back to the center of the rink, spinning a little as he goes. He holds his starting position waiting for the music to start playing again. Eventually, the warm violin melody enters the rink, and Plisetsky starts to dance.

  
For a moment, I just watch. I can see the softness in his face, the emotion, the slight smile. Denikin described him as angry, which may be true off the ice, I wouldn’t know. But there’s no anger in his skating now.

  
In fact, I think there’s love.

  
He skates the program a few times, Katsuki making comments after each repetition. I take a few more pictures but focus more on just watching.

  
Eventually, they end the practice session. Plisetsky skates off the ice and starts unlacing his skates. Katsuki takes a few notes before waving goodbye and disappearing out into the hall.

  
I know I should say something to Plisetsky, anything to break the silence. Denikin’s warnings ring in my ears, but I start talking regardless.

  
“It’s a beautiful program,” I say hesitantly. “What’s it about?”

  
My question seems to catch him off guard. For a second he just stares at me, but then he smiles.

  
“My grandfather.”

  
It’s the only explanation he offers before grabbing his bags and walking out the door. I don’t follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, thanks so much for reading! This is my first fic attempt, I hope you like it! Feel free to let me know what you think! I'll try to be back in a week or so with a new update, but until then, have a great day!


	2. China

Things get progressively crazier as the Cup of China approaches. The mornings get earlier, the nights get later, everything in between feels like a blur. Katsuki’s nervous. Plisetsky’s been putting on an arrogant front, but underneath it all, he seems tense. Nikiforov seems to be constantly on the edge of going crazy, and I don’t blame him. Denikin still seems friendly, he answers all my strange and slightly obvious questions, but I can tell it’s getting to him, too.

  
I wake up early on the morning we’re set to fly out to Beijing. I finish my last minute packing and triple check my boarding pass. I take a taxi to the airport, trying to figure out exactly what I left in my hotel room. I have my camera bag. I have my actual bag. I have enough clothing, I brought a toothbrush, I grabbed all my lenses, right? Did I even end up grabbing the telephoto off of my nightstand?

  
I check my camera bag and breathe a sigh of relief.

  
All lenses are accounted for, along with plenty of SD Cards. I’ll be fine. I’ll definitely be fine. Nothing’s missing, nothing’s out of place, I’ll be fine.

  
I slowly make my way through check-in, dropping off my suitcase and heading off towards security. I hug my camera bag close to my chest, keeping an eye out for Katsuki or Plisetsky.

  
Nikiforov finds me first, snagging me just before I make it to security.

  
“They both already went through,” he says. “Yuuri will probably be looking for you once you make it to the other side, he gave you his phone number, right?”

  
I nod.

  
Nikiforov sighs. “Of course he did. He’s always prepared, organized, on top of things… I need something with caffeine, Kara, a whole lot of caffeine...”

  
He trails off a little before he snaps back into focus. “Take good pictures for me, ok? Of the skate, of the flight, of just… everything. Take a picture of the hotel receptionist, I don’t care. I want all of it.”

  
“Don’t worry,” I say with a smile. “You won’t miss a thing.”

  
He smiles back, but it seems forced. “Oh if only that were true…”

  
He looks like he’s about to say more, but his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He rolls his eyes as he sees the name on the screen.

  
”It’s Anton,” he says. “I should take this. Good luck. Stay safe. And keep them safe- for the love of God don’t let Yurio near anything sharp and pointy, keep him away from strangers or anyone that looks- shit I just missed the call.” He shakes his head to himself and starts to redial. “Have fun,” he says, giving me one last weak smile before he walks off.

  
It doesn’t take too long to make it through security and over to the gate where the two figure skaters are already waiting. Katsuki’s sitting quietly with a book. The title’s in Japanese, but the cover art looks pretty.

  
It takes me a minute to realize that the hooded figure sitting across from him is actually Plisetsky. He’s hiding in his sweatshirt, sunglasses over his eyes, possibly sleeping, but I can’t really tell. At least he won’t be recognized.

  
We have about half an hour before boarding, and I use the time to take some pictures. I get a few of Plisetsky. He’s an easy target. I get a couple good shots of Katsuki before he notices and starts making a face at me. I take a few pictures of the architecture, the tall windows, the skylights, the other strangers at the gate. I figure Nikiforov will thank me.

  
Eventually, they start boarding our flight. I end up towards the back of the plane, on the aisle. They booked my ticket long after they booked Katsuki’s and Plisetsky’s, so I’m nowhere near them. Instead, I’m next to a woman named Marya, who’s on her way to Beijing on business.

  
Marya and I don’t end up talking much. I spend most of my flight time with my laptop, uploading the photos from my camera. I start with some of my favorite shots from Plisetsky’s practice sessions. I open them in Lightroom and start to work, quickly losing track of time.

  
By the time we land in Beijing, I’ve made it through a good handful of pictures. I’ve tagged a few to send back to my boss once I get back in the land of internet access, which will hopefully be soon. Thankfully, Katsuki and Plisetsky are pretty familiar with the airport and we get out quickly. There’s a car waiting to take us to the hotel, which is apparently on the other side of the city.

  
I’m in the back seat, next to Plisetsky, who is drumming his fingers aggressively against his thigh. I’m not sure if it’s nerves or caffeine or just boredom. I don’t ask. Instead, I pull out my laptop and open up some of the photos I’ve been working on. I don’t necessarily invite Plisetsky to watch, but his eyes wander anyways.

  
The picture I start with is one of the ones from his practice session. He’s wearing a loose tank top along with a pair of black pants that look more flexible than my leggings. He’s just landed from a jump, leg extended, blonde hair flying out behind him. It was a decent picture to start with but after some lighting adjustments and some sharpened details… it’s bordering on art.

  
I start doing minor adjustments in photoshop- evening out the shadows on his face, brightening his eyes, getting rid of the flyaway hair that somehow discovered the secret to defying gravity. I can feel Plisetsky’s eyes on my screen, but I don’t say anything.

  
“That’s really fucking sick, Markov,” he says eventually, earning a startled look from Katsuki.

  
“Thanks,” I reply, not sure of what else to say.

  
I go back to work, zooming in on the demonic flyaway hair. I can see the faint lines of the pixel grid as I slowly start to edit. Plisetsky’s still watching quietly, though I can see the interest in his eyes.

  
“It’s a clone stamp,” I say hesitantly. “It’s taking the content right next to the hair and writing it over, kind of like a duplication? It’s not perfect, I’ll have to paint parts of it in manually later. But I figured I’d start.”

  
He nods and continues to watch. I keep explaining what I’m doing or at least trying to. I’m not sure if any of it makes sense. Plisetsky keeps nodding at my comments if that counts for anything.

  
Eventually, we reach the hotel, which is much nicer than I’d expect. We check in at the front desk, the receptionist smiling as she hands us our room keys. She wishes Plisetsky good luck, and we’re on our way up to the third floor. My room is a few doors down from Plisetsky’s, Katsuki’s is across the hall and one over.

  
I plug in my laptop once I get into the room, collapsing onto the bed shortly after. I know I should probably work, I’ll have a lot more to get done after the competition happens. But exhaustion hits me hard, and before I know it, I’m asleep.

  
I wake up to the sound of knocking at my door.

  
“Kara?” The voice is more Japanese than Russian, it’s definitely Katsuki. “We’re going into town to get dinner,” he says. “You could come.”

  
“One minute,” I reply, trying to get the motivation to stand up.

  
I successfully make it off the bed and grab my things- purse, wallet, camera bag, is it cold enough to need a coat? I grab my jacket on my way out the door. Katsuki and Plisetsky are waiting in the hall, engaged in a conversation about cats for some reason.

  
As we make our way out of the hotel, I manage to take a picture of the receptionist without her noticing.

  
Plisetsky, however, notices right away.

  
“Are you kidding me, Markov?”

  
I shrug. “Nikiforov asked me to take pictures of everything. I’m not going to disappoint.”

  
Plisetsky thinks for a minute as we walk. “You know what you should do…” He trails off a little, biting the edge of his lip. “You should send Victor an email tonight, attach your pictures. Write something really sappy in the subject line- China sends its love, whatever. But don’t attach any pictures of us. Just the receptionist, the view from the window, the random stranger across the street… See how long it takes him to completely lose his shit.”

  
I didn’t realize Katsuki was listening, but he laughs. “You have my full blessing,” he says. “Just forward me the email he sends you back.”

  
“Will do,” I say, despite the fact that I’ll never follow through.

  
We continue our walk to the restaurant in silence- it’s only a few blocks from the hotel. I take some more pictures of the streets, the lights, the shops that we pass. I get a few side views of Plisetsky’s face and some nice shots of the back of Katsuki’s head.

  
Eventually, we make it to the restaurant and order our food, but Katsuki’s quickly distracted by a phone call. He answers in Japanese as he walks off, leaving Plisetsky and me alone at the table.

  
“It’s probably family,” he says. “Can't be anything too serious considering he still looks relatively calm.”

  
I nod, trying to decide which question to start with.

  
“So. What do you have planned for the Cup of China?” I ask, earning an eye roll from Plisetsky.

  
“Look, Markov,” he says. “I get that people are speculating, shooting rumors around because apparently, Victor made this competition a symbol or a metaphor or some shit like that. But I’m not him. This is a competition. It’s not a tribute, a shoutout, a chance to assert my gay agenda, whatever the fuck that means. This is a competition. I’m going to win.”

  
I don’t know what I was expecting from him, but I’m more than a little surprised.

  
He must notice my blank stare. “I’m sorry, that was harsh. I’m just a little pissed. Like this is my last season on ice and they don’t even ask about my programs or choreography or anything actually important. No, they’re wondering where Beka is because apparently, this sport isn’t fucking gay enough without my contributions. Like damn, the man has a life, leave him alone.”

  
There’s another moment of silence, and I can’t help but feel like I’m missing a connection somewhere. I could ask, of course, but the risk of irritating Plisetsky even more kind of terrifies me. I decide to play it safe.

  
“I’m sorry for asking,” I say hesitantly. “I didn't know.”

  
For a second, he just stares at me. “Wait,” he says. “That was an honest to God genuine question. You have no idea, do you?”

  
I shrug.

  
Plisetsky just laughs.

  
“Damn, Markov, you don’t really follow this sport, do you?”

  
His tone has completely flipped, thankfully. He’s calmer now, more lighthearted, almost like he’s enjoying himself.

  
“Look, when you get back to the hotel, google ‘Victor Nikiforov Cup of China’. Or ‘Yuuri Katsuki Cup of China’, either option would probably get you the footage you want. It was kind of a big deal.”

  
“Was it bad?”

  
Plisetsky laughs again. “It was… complicated to say the least. Just… look it up. I don’t get paid enough to explain it to you.”

  
“Will do,” I say, trying to decide where to take the conversation. “On an unrelated note, you said you agreed to this project because of your exhibition skate? Can you tell me about your plans for that?”

  
“Not yet, because it’s not final,” he chuckles a little but continues. “I’m still putting it together, working out timing and such. But trust me, you’ll be the first to know. There will definitely be specific facial expressions I’ll want you to capture.”

  
The way he says it almost makes me nervous. Plisetsky was right earlier, I don’t really follow figure skating. I know some of the basics and I’m familiar with a few of the top contenders today, but that’s about it. I did, however, do a bit of research on Plisetsky before I started the project, and I’m more than familiar with his flair for dramatics. If the audience is looking for a surprise, I’m sure they’ll get it.

  
“Hey, Markov?” Plisetsky says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “That stuff you were doing in the cab, with those pictures on your computer? You’re pretty good at that, yeah?”

  
I shrug. “I’m proficient?”

  
For a second, he seems to question himself, but he starts talking anyways. “Do you have any experience restoring old photos?”

  
The question throws me off, and I take a minute to actually formulate a reply.

  
“That depends on what you had in mind. Most old photos are black and white. If you’re looking to have them remastered in color, it can be done. But it uses a different program that I’m not very good at. I could refer you to some people, though.”

  
“I don’t need color,” he says. “I found a few old photographs a while ago, but most of them are in pretty bad shape. There are some scratches, dust stains, water damage, stuff like that. I don’t want them to look modern or anything, just like they were taken care of and not stashed in a basement somewhere.”

  
I nod. “I could do that. Depending on how bad the damage is, it might take a while, but if you get them to me when we’re back in Russia, I could start.”

  
“Thanks,” he says with a smile. “I’d pay you, don’t worry, it wouldn’t be like an independent project…”

  
He trails off as Katsuki walks back over to the table. There’s something off about his expression, but I can’t quite place it. I can tell Plisetsky sees it too. He doesn't look angry, not quite sad either. Slightly confused, maybe?

  
“Family?” Plisetsky asks.

  
Katsuki shakes his head. “Minami.”

  
“Shit. Did something happen?”

  
Katsuki sighs. “He’s not hurt. But something did happen. Or something will happen. He’s planning to announce his retirement at NHK next week. He thought it would be nice to warn us.”

  
Silence.

  
I can see Plisetsky’s face shift from confusion to anger. I brace myself for the strain of curses that are about to hit the air, but instead, all I get is one word.

  
“ _Why_?”

  
“I asked, trust me. He didn’t give details. He just said it was time.”

  
Once again, silence.

  
“What the hell does that even _mean_?”

  
Katsuki shrugs. “I don’t know. He has reasons.”

  
“Yeah, bullshit reasons,” Plisetsky mutters. “He’s too good for that.”

  
“You’re too good for that,” Katsuki snaps back.

  
“Ok sure, yeah, I’ll admit that. I’m retiring too young, I have potential, whatever. But I have reasons. And you know I have reasons. They’re not ideal reasons, I fucking hate those reasons, but you and I both know damn well that those reasons exist. Somehow I doubt Kenji has the same ones.”

  
There’s another moment of silence, the tension growing dangerously high. I can see Katsuki thinking, debating his reply. I don’t know to expect from him, and it’s making me nervous.

  
Eventually, Katsuki just sighs. “Then I guess you’ll just have to ask him.”

  
Silence.

  
Plisetsky doesn’t reply. Instead, we all eat, nobody daring to say anything. We finish dinner and walk back to the hotel. I have a few questions, but no courage to actually open my mouth. The irritation is practically radiating off of Plisetsky, and Katsuki seems completely lost in thought.

  
We disappear into our separate rooms back at the hotel, and I flop back onto the bed. I stare at the ceiling for a few minutes before grabbing my laptop and plugging in my camera. I got a few pictures from dinner, none very spectacular. A few shots of the hotel, some pictures from the street, a nice close up of Plisetsky’s nose from when my hand had slipped the zoom...

  
I decide to email Nikiforov the picture of the hotel receptionist.

  
Maybe it’ll make him laugh.

  
I spend a bit of time googling Kenjirou Minami, but like Plisetsky, his reasons for retirement seem nonexistent. Maybe they’re related somehow. Plisetsky seems to doubt it, but it does seem like a bit of a coincidence. They’re both top figure skaters, rivals, in a way. They’re both young, both incredibly talented, both leaving the sport too early…

  
Maybe Minami will make a statement when he officially announces his retirement.

  
Maybe he won’t.

  
Either way, Google is no help to me.

  
I do, however, decide to look up Nikiforov’s history with the Cup of China. Most of the top results seem to link back to an older program of Katsuki’s. I find a video linked to an actual news site and not a gossip board, and wait for the page to load.

  
I watch the video to the very end.

  
And then I get an idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know! We should be back in about a week or so with another chapter, so see you then! Thanks you guys!


	3. Altin

It’s our first day back in St. Petersburg after the Cup of China. Plisetsky won by a pretty strong margin. He seemed happy about it. Katsuki was proud. But from my understanding, it was an expected victory. His real competition is Minami, and he won’t face the Japanese skater until the actual Grand Prix.

  


He says he isn’t nervous about it, he claims he doesn't have anything to worry about. He insists he’s beaten Minami before and will do it again. I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s Nikiforov or Katsuki. Maybe it’s himself. It’s probably a combination.

  


Either way, I hope he wins.

  


My first destination upon reaching the rink is Nikiforov’s office. I make my way through the halls, laptop bag strewn over my shoulder alongside my camera. I know I shouldn’t be nervous, I’m just showing him a few photos. But I can still feel the butterflies in my stomach.

  


They’re more than just a few photos.

  


It had taken a bit of help. I’d had to call in a couple favors from some other photographers in Beijing, though they were happy to help. We planned out our angles, our specific timing, the way we needed the shots framed. I still can’t believe we didn’t miss anything. I did most of the editing on the plane, and I have to say, they turned out relatively well for how quickly I did the photoshop work. I’ll polish them later, but right now, they’re going to Nikiforov.

  


There are twenty-four pictures total. He’s probably seen twelve of them before, considering half of the images are from Katsuki’s iconic free skate nine years ago in Beijing. I cropped them a little and played with a bit of the lighting, but he’ll recognize them. He was there, after all.

  


The other twelve are parallels.

  


It required a lot of trimming, small rotations, and a bit of focus adjustment. But when set next to Katsuki’s picture’s, the framing is almost identical. I hadn’t realized how similar the skaters were until their pictures were right next to each other on my laptop screen.

  


Part of me knows they’re good pictures. Katsuki definitely thought so, Plisetsky even gave me a smile when I showed him. I know the photos are fine. And yet here I stand, staring down Nikiforov’s door, trying to decide whether or not I should knock yet.

  


I wonder if that plaque is actual gold or an imitation metal.

  


It really could be either, considering who the office belongs to.

  


Maybe I’ll just scrap the whole picture idea and ask him about the story behind his office door.

  


I take a deep breath, stretching out my hands. I’ve dealt with Yuri Plisetsky, I can handle Victor Nikiforov.

  


After what seems like a small eternity of contemplation, I knock on the door.

  


“It’s open,” Nikiforov’s voice replies almost immediately.

  


I pause for a second before turning the handle and letting myself in.

  


He’s sitting behind his desk, leaned back in the chair. He’s reading something, hair loosely braided over his shoulder. There’s music playing quietly in the background, something old and classical that I don’t recognize.

  


“Oh, Kara,” he says, sitting up a little straighter. “Sorry, I thought you were Anton. Have a seat, what can I do for you?”

  


I smile and claim a chair in front of Nikiforov’s desk. “Actually I have some pictures to show you.”

  


He laughs. “Hopefully they’re not all as stunning as the one you emailed me, I don’t think I could manage.”

  


“No,” I say as I open up my laptop. “Although the woman next to me on one of my flights had a really nice complexion, especially against the color of the seats. And the way the plane was lit… I have to say, Mr. Nikiforov, this project is really bringing out some of my best work.”

  


He shakes head a little, and I pull up some of Plisetsky’s practice photos. The editing is nicer and I’ve had more time to micro-analyze them. Also, I want to put off the Cup of China compilation for as long as possible.

  


I flip my screen around to face Nikiforov and watch his eyes widen.

  


“Kara, these are wonderful,” he says, flipping through the pictures I’d pulled up. “Has Yuri seen these?”

  


I nod. “I showed him the after the rough edits, but he’s seen most of the finals by now.”

  


For a few minutes, Nikiforov just stares at each picture. He finally reaches the last one and looks back up at me. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he stops to reconsider.

  


“I have something else for you, too,” I say before my nerves can talk me out of it.

  


I turn my laptop back to face me, and pull up the folder labeled “CoC Comp”. I open the first picture and wait for it to load. It’s a picture of Plisetsky skating out onto the ice, right next to a picture of Katsuki in almost the same position.

  


I slowly turn the laptop towards Nikiforov. I keep it slightly angled so I can see what’s on the screen but then focus my attention on Nikiforov.

I can see the recognition in his eyes as he stares at the picture.

  


“That’s… this is…”

  


I nod.

  


“ _Kara Markov_.”

  


I nod.

  


He says something else, but it’s in Russian.

  


I nod anyway.

  


He tabs to the next picture- a facial close up before the start of the program. His eyes comb over the image like he’s trying to absorb every possible detail. He flips through the photos, devouring each one.

  


They’re not perfect side-by-sides. Plisetsky and Katsuki skated different programs, after all. But we were able to line up some of the axles and toe loops, a few of the jump entries. Chronologically, it isn’t in order. But the symmetry is still there.

  


Nikiforov finally makes it to the last image.

  


Plisetsky isn’t in it. Instead, it’s a picture of Katsuki. I had Nati Ollef take it from across the rink, and she didn’t disappoint. She snapped the photo right after Plisetsky finished his free skate, and the expression on Katsuki’s face is priceless.

  


On the other side of Katsuki’s photo is a much younger Victor Nikiforov, staring out onto the ice. Their expressions aren’t quite the same. After all, they have different facial shapes and their emotions show in different ways. But it’s impossible to miss the sheer admiration and the love.

  


“I never forgot that feeling,” Nikiforov says quietly. “I don’t think I ever will.”

  


There’s a silence. I try to think of something to say, but come up blank. Instead, I just nod and avoid eye contact.

  


Nikiforov takes a deep breath, still looking at the picture. “How much do you know about that program?”

  


“Admittedly, not much. I watched a few videos, heard a few commentaries. But that’s about it.”

  


“That program, that free skate… the music was called ‘Yuuri on Ice’. It was a really original name, I know. Don’t ask me how we came up with it. But it was supposed to represent Yuuri, his skating, his life, his journey, really. It told the story of Yuuri realizing he wasn’t alone, realizing he was supported, he was loved… He drew a lot of that inspiration from his family, people close to him. It was a really nice program, wonderful foundations.”

  


He pauses for a minute but keeps going.

  


“The jump he ended with wasn’t planned. It was supposed to be a toe loop, he switched it to a flip. He didn’t tell me he was even considering it. But standing out there watching that performance, seeing him end on a quad flip… Kara that was my jump. Back when I skated competitively, that was my signature. Yuuri ended his program- a program about finding himself and finding love- with my jump. He ended it with _me_.”

  


He shakes his head a little, laughing to himself. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Kissing Yuuri on that rink was a wonderful experience. I’d been waiting for quite a while. But watching him end that program, watching that flip… That was easily one of the best moments of my life.”

  


“You don’t regret it?” I ask, though I think I know the answer.

  


“Of course not,” he replies instantly. “I mean, people were upset about it, sure. Yakov wasn’t happy, the press went completely crazy…. My mother called me after I did that. She didn’t call after any competitions, didn’t call when I retired, but I kiss Yuuri Katsuki on international television and she has to pop up to remind me that I’m going to Hell…”

  


He trails off, laughing a little. “She was so convinced that I was going to get struck down or something, that God was coming to punish me for all my grievous wrongdoings… funny how that worked out. No, I don’t regret it. Not at all.”

  


“He doesn’t regret anything,” an amused Anton Denikin says from the doorframe. “We’re pretty sure he’s missing that emotion.”

  


“I regret leaving my office door open,” Nikiforov says rather pointedly as he pulls a few papers from the stack on his desk. “Come here, though, I need you to sign some of these.”

  


I pack up my laptop as Denikin approaches. Their practice session starts soon and I should get over to the rink where Plisetsky is.

  


“How’s the quad sal?” Nikiforov asks as Denikin examines the paperwork.

  


“Actually surprisingly good, I got Yurio to give me some pointers and they were actually pretty helpful.”

  


Nikiforov nods. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

  


I slowly make my way out of the office as their conversation turns to paperwork and press releases. Apparently, there were a few last minute changes with NHK, and new forms have to be submitted. It was a hassle. Katsuki was irritated. But it shouldn't be anything too serious.

  


Sure enough, Plisetsky is already at the rink. He’s skating laps, doing a few jumps, mostly warm up. Katsuki’s on the sidelines, silently observing. I tuck my laptop bag under a bench and take out my camera.

  


I have a lot of pictures of Plisetsky practicing. He’s always on the ice running through something, so the shots aren’t hard to come by. I probably have more than enough, but there’s something about watching him skate that’s just captivating. And besides, I don’t really have anything better to do.

  


About halfway through the practice session, the door opens quietly. Plisetsky doesn’t hear it, but Katuski does. He gives the newcomer a warm smile, but turns his attention back to the rink. The stranger just stays near the door, leaning back against the wall. He watches silently, a smile on his face.

  


He doesn’t look like an ice skater. His whole outfit consists of blacks and greys, silver if you count the accents on his leather jacket. His dark hair is pushed back, sunglasses hanging on the neckline of his shirt. I feel like I should know who he is, but I’m drawing a blank.

  


I take a few pictures of him and focus my attention back on Plisetsky. He’s near the end of his short program, close to the final jump combination. He skates through it, landing strong after what I think is a toe loop of some sort. I’m probably wrong.

  


“Yurio, presentation,” Katsuki calls from the sidelines. “Put some heart into it.”

  


“Yeah, I know,” Plisetsky mutters, hardly making eye contact. “I’m working on it.”

  


“Work harder,” the stranger by the door says. “I mean, damn, Yura. You hungover or something?”

  


Plisetsky’s eyes fly up and lock onto the stranger. “Beka, you _asshole_. Get out here and skate it better.”

  


The stranger laughs as he approaches the rink. “You and I both know I couldn’t if I tried.”

  


Plisetsky meets him at the edge of the rink and pulls him into a hug.

  


That’s when it hits me.

  


Beka as in Otabek.

  


Otabek Altin.

  


Suddenly, I regret not taking more pictures.

  


“I thought your flight was coming in this weekend,” Plisetsky says, still looking a little surprised. “I swear if you drove all the way here on that fucking bike-”

  


“My bike is beautiful, and you know it,” Altin interjects. “But no, I got lucky and was able to rearrange a few things. I figured I’d surprise you.”

  


“Well, I’m definitely surprised. The apartments a fucking mess though.”

  


Altin shrugs. “I’ll manage. Now, don’t you have a program to work? We can’t have you bombing Skate America because of me.”

  


Plisetsky scoffs. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ll kick ass with or without your influence.”

  


He speeds back to the center of the ice, leaving a laughing Altin in his wake.

  


“It’s good to have you back,” Katsuki says.

  


Altin sighs. “Under different circumstances, I’d say the same thing.”

  


There’s a moment of silence before Altin’s eyes catch on mine.

  


“You’re new, right? You don’t look familiar.”

  


I nod. “Kara Markov. I’m here to document Yuri Plisetsky’s last season.”

  


“Makes sense. I’m Otabek Altin. I trust we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

  


I nod again. “How long are you planning to be in St. Petersburg?”

  


“As long as necessary,” Altin replies simply. “Definitely through the final and beyond. There are things going on in the area that I need to be here for. I don’t know how long they’ll take.”

  


I’d normally ask a follow-up question to clarify, but his tone sends an incredibly clear warning.

  


“So,” I say hesitantly. “How long have you and Plisetsky been together?”

  


Altin shrugs. “Five years or so? I mean, we were always long distance back then. And as much as I’d have liked to pull a Victor Nikiforov and fly across the world chasing ass, I wasn’t nearly rich enough.”

  


Katsuki laughs but doesn’t comment.

  


“I mean, we’re not exactly your traditional couple,” Altin says. “We both have lives, they’re running in different directions. And that’s alright. It’s not ideal, but neither of us wanted to quit our jobs and run off to another country. So we just rolled with it, you know? And we made it work.”

  


I nod. “How will that change with his retirement?”

  


Altin sighs. “I don’t know. To clarify, he’s not retiring because of me. This isn’t some sappy plot to run off into the sunset. Not at all. Shit’s about to go down, Miss Markov. And I’m not going to explain all of it to you. But it’ll be hard. It’ll be ugly. Things will get complicated. Maybe afterward, we’ll talk about changing. But right now, we have more important things to deal with.”

  


I’m about to ask another question, but Altin gets distracted by one of Plisetsky’s jumps.

  


“Watch that leg,” he shouts. “You can’t let your knee lock.”

  


Plisetsky nods.

  


Altin keeps his eyes on the rink, not showing any interest in resuming our conversation. I decide not to push it. Instead, I grab my camera and take some more pictures.

  


I focus a little more on Altin- his reactions to Plisetsky, the gestures he makes when he talks, the way he looks at Katsuki. It’s interesting, watching them communicate. They usually react to the same things, though they don’t always realize it.

  


Eventually, the practice is over, and Plisetsky starts to unlace his skates. Katsuki and Altin stay back to talk about a few remaining notes with him, though most of them seem more trivial than serious. Katsuki is first to leave, and I start to follow him out.

  


Plisetsky cuts me off.

  


“Markov,” he snaps. “Hold up.”

  


I stop, watching him dig something out of his bag. He eventually pulls out a slightly battered manila folder with multiple paper clips attached to the edges. There’s writing on it, but it’s in Russian.

  


“Remember those photos I asked about?” Plisetsky asks, handing me the folder. “The restoration stuff?”

  


I nod.

  


“Well, this is what I’ve got. If you can help, thanks. If not, no big deal. Just… see what you can do.”

  


“I’ll do my best,” I say, turning to walk out the door.

  


“Thank you,” Plisetsky says quietly as I leave.

  


I shut the door behind me and start down the hallway. I glance at the contents of the folder as I walk, thumbing through some of the old photos. They’re mostly old shots of families labeled in sloppy Russian letters that I can’t make sense of.

  


They’re in terrible shape, too. They’re water damaged, decaying in some spots. There are scratches and ink stains, warping in strange places. There’s an unmistakable scent of liquor and tobacco ingrained in the folder, and I get the sense that Plisetsky probably isn’t the one responsible.

  


However, responsible or not, the photos must be important to him.

  


I may not be able to fix everything, but I’ll certainly try. If anything, I’ll send them off to Nati and see if she can tweak them. Maybe Carter will be able to fix the coloration in Illustrator, if I give him enough time. He’ll give me a hard time about it, sure. But Plisetsky will get his pictures.

  


Whatever it takes, Plisetsky will get those photos.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Otabek makes an entrance! Thanks for reading, guys! If you've got questions or comments feel free to drop me a line here or on tumblr, imagine that! But anyways, I'll try to get a new chapter up in about a week, it's crazy concert season though so forgive me if I'm a little late. I'll do my best! Thanks again guys! You're the best!


	4. Skate America

The weeks between the Cup of China and Skate America fly by in a giant blur, and before I know it, I’m in an airport again. Our flight out of St. Petersburg was supposed to leave at one in the morning. It’s now two thirty and we’re still sitting in the airport.

  
Denikin was the first to crash. He muttered something to Nikiforov in Russian, sprawled out across a bench, and hasn’t moved since. A few of the other skaters followed suit shortly after. Nikiforov lasted a little longer, but eventually leaned on Katsuki and fell asleep. Plisetsky’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past hour. Altin and Katsuki are the only ones still awake, other than me. Altin is pacing down the hallway, staring at the ceiling. Katsuki just looks irritated.

  
Technically our flight isn’t canceled, it’s delayed. From what I’ve heard from Katsuki, it’s a technical error of some sort, and they’re working on fixing it. Until then, we’re stuck. 

  
Eventually, Altin stops pacing and sits in the empty seat next to Plisetsky. 

  
“This is the fifth circle of hell,” he says dryly.

  
Katsuki nods but doesn’t reply.

  
After a few more minutes of silence, Altin goes to ask about our flight considering he’s the only person awake who speaks any Russian. They don’t tell him anything new. 

  
Time continues to drag. I take a few pictures, though I’m fairly certain nobody will let me use them. Altin keeps pacing. Katsuki’s eyes are on his phone screen, though he doesn’t look engaged in the least.

  
It’s three fifteen when we finally get onto the plane. I end up next to two of the non-competing skaters- one is Denikin, I don’t recognize the other.  We’re all to exhausted to do formal introductions. None of us are awake when the plane takes off. 

  
Eleven hours later, we're landing in Chicago. It's somewhere around six in the morning Chicago time, and the airport is alive and bustling. We somehow manage to get taxis to the hotel without losing anyone, but we split up as soon as we get there.

  
I don't see much of anyone all day. I spend a bit of time in the lobby playing cards with Denikin and the other non-competing skaters. I talk a little with Plisetsky and Altin when I see them in the hallway, but it doesn't last long. I catch glimpses of Nikiforov, but he’s usually on the phone or in a hurry. On the bright side, I get a lot of work done in the solitude of my hotel room.

  
Eventually, the next day arrives, along with Skate America. The officials will only allow Plisetsky and Katsuki near the rink, so I end up in the front row of spectator seating with Nikiforov and the rest of the Russian group. We're sitting there for less than two minutes when we're ambushed by an overeager man that I assume to be a friend of Nikiforov's. 

  
He's either a friend or a slightly crazy stalker. 

  
But Nikiforov greets him with a hug, so I assume he's a friend.

  
“Phichit,” Nikiforov says. “It’s been too long! How’s Detroit treating you?”

  
The name clicks quickly with me. I used his Instagram when researching figure skating for the project, he’s actually a decent photographer. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize his face.

  
Now that he’s actually here, though, I might ask if he’ll let me use some his candid shots of Plisetsky for my project. Plisetsky would probably hate me for it, but Chulanont just might agree.

  
"It's Detroit, same as always. You really should visit sometime.”

  
Nikiforov laughs. "So you can leave me in the dust and run off with Yuuri?"

  
"Well, I'm sure you'll find something upper-class and expensive to do. Go see an opera or buy a suit or something."

  
Nikiforov laughs. “Right. Because the Americans have such wonderful operas.”

  
I don’t know much about opera, but the sarcasm is impossible to miss. 

  
“You know, V,” Chulanont says hesitantly. “You could always just move out here. I mean with your kid retiring and all you don’t exactly have much stopping you.”

  
Nikiforov sighs. “I have a job, you know. I’m actually quite fond of it.”

  
“There are jobs here,” Chulanont says. His voice sounds decent, but I can tell he’s treading carefully. “And besides, this country offers some other benefits.”

  
Nikiforov thinks for a minute and then lets out a breath. “I won’t lie and say we haven’t thought about it. But for now, Russia is where we belong. We’re still holding out hope.”

  
Chulanont nods. I get the feeling he has more to say, but instead, he smiles and changes the subject.

  
"So when’s my favorite Russian skating?"

  
The mood shifts instantly as Nikiforov dramatically feigns offense. "After everything I've done for you? Phichit, you wound me."

  
"The only thing you've done for me is let me borrow your husband. Which doesn't really count because Yuuri loves me and I don't need your permission."

  
"I suppose you're right,” Nikiforov says with a smile. “Yuri's skating third. I'll be sure to tell him he's your favorite, I'm sure he'd have plenty to say about that."

  
Chulanont laughs. “He's still pissy at me for the Instagram incident at NHK last year, you’d better not."

  
"Oh, I forgot about that!" Nikiforov laughs. "Are you sure you should be in the building right now? I mean, Otabek's good, but I don't think he'll be able to save you."

  
Altin chuckles. “Don’t assume I’d want to. I was in those pictures, remember?”

  
"Sorry?"

  
"No, you're not."

  
Chulanont shrugs. "Well, I got a few new followers out of it, so it can't have been that bad."

  
Nikiforov laughs. "Only a few? You're losing your touch."

  
"Hey, I still have more than you, don't get arrogant."

  
Nikiforov starts to reply, but he’s cut out by a shrill shout. 

  
“ _ Daddy, do you see who that is? _ ”

  
All heads turn towards the source of the voice- a young girl with black hair and a tiny Team Canada jacket. She’s staring straight at us, though I’m not sure exactly who she’s talking about. The girl’s father waves, trying not to laugh. 

  
Nikiforov is the first to react. 

  
“JJ?” He says, eyes on the father rather than the girl. 

  
“ _ Daddy you know him? _ ”

  
The father shrugs. “I know _ of  _ him.”

  
Nikiforov just laughs. “Oh, JJ, you told your daughter about me? That’s adorable.” He walks over and shakes the girl’s hand. “And who might you be?”

  
The girl looks like she’s about to die. “Leah Leroy,” she says.

  
“Trust me, she looked you up all on her own. I had nothing to do with it. I think she found Stammi Vicino on Youtube or something when looking through Yuuri’s stuff.”

  
Nikiforov laughs. “Oh, so she’s a fan of Yuuri’s too? We’re going to be great friends, I can already tell. You’ll have to have you meet him later.”

  
The girl’s eyes go wide. “He’s _ here _ ?”

  
Her father smiles. “Of course he’s here. He coaches the Russian Yuri, remember?”

  
Nikiforov leads her over to the banister separating spectator seating from the actual rink.

  
“Look over that way,” he says. “Do you see the man standing by the edge of the rink? He’s not facing us, but he’s wearing this ridiculous blue hat and a black coat. That’s Yuuri.”

  
“That’s not Yuuri,” she says defiantly. “He’s too short. And he’s too poofy.”

  
Nikiforov laughs. “Honey, that’s a coat. He’s not that poofy underneath, I promise. And he only looks short because he’s not wearing skates, remember?”

  
The girl is not convinced. “But you can’t really tell. He’s looking away and you can’t see his hair under that hat. He’s not even wearing anything from Japan.”

  
“Well, that’s because he works in Russia now. He can’t just run around in a Team Japan jacket.”

  
The girl still looks skeptical. 

  
“Honey, I literally bought him that coat. And I’m pretty sure I bought that hat, too. Plus, I saw him getting ready this morning, I know what he’s wearing.”

  
The girl looks like she’s trying to decide whether or not she believes him. 

  
Her father just laughs. “You’re still buying him clothes?”

  
Nikiforov just scoffs. “Of course. You saw what he wore before he met me. I have to make sure he has at least a few things that are designer.”

  
The girl gives him a confused look. “Wait, why do you buy Yuuri clothes?”

  
Nikiforov almost replies but stops to think for a second. “Well, because Yuuri’s my best friend ever, and sometimes friends buy things for each other.”

  
The girl seems to accept that answer. 

  
The girl’s father nods. “Well, we should probably head up to our official seats, we don’t technically have clearance…”

  
“You have clearance if I say you have clearance,” Nikiforov says. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  
Nobody protests. 

  
The girl ends up sitting in the front row next to Nikiforov, her father hangs back and talks with Altin. Chulanont is casually drifting between conversations and interjecting whenever he thinks it’s necessary. 

  
Nikiforov is pointing out all the important people at the rink and explaining some of the competitors. He’s also pointing out some of the warm-up jumps. The girl’s soaking up every word. Nikiforov's commentary continues through the warm-up period and into the competition. The only time it stops is when Plisetsky takes the ice.

  
He’s the third one to skate, and the whole room seems to hold its breath as he takes the ice. The official commentator is still talking, of course, but nobody else is. The booming voice talks about Plisetsky- his coaching, his history, his medal counts, and of course, his impending retirement. 

  
After the introduction is over, the music starts to play. I take as many pictures as I can, though the angle from our seats isn’t exactly ideal. A few of the farther shots will probably turn out alright, but I’m not in a great position for close-ups. Thankfully, I got good ones in Beijing. 

  
Once the program ends, the arena erupts into applause. Nikiforov stands up and starts towards the kiss and cry, Altin close behind him. 

  
“Where are you going?” the girl asks.

  
“To meet them,” Nikiforov says, turning back towards her. “Aren’t you coming?”

  
“Really?”

  
“Of course!”

  
Her father gives a nod of approval, and Nikiforov grabs her hand. They lead the procession towards the kiss and cry, followed by Altin, Chulanont, and the father. I tag along behind them.

  
Plisetsky scores high- higher than he did in Beijing. He seems a little lukewarm about it, but Katsuki and Nikiforov are happy. 

  
There are far too many interactions at the kiss and cry for me to keep track of. Chulanont and Katsuki have an exuberant reunion. Nikiforov introduces the girl to Plisetsky, who threatens to fight her father on numerous occasions. She ends up meeting Katsuki, too, and gladly admits that he’s not as puffy up close.

  
Katsuki gives Nikiforov a questioning look but is cut off by a phone call before he can actually say anything. 

  
The group conversation continues as normal. Chulanont congratulates Plisetsky, Plisetsky replies with a bitter comment about NHK. The girl is talking to Altin now, along with her father. The only one not actively talking is Nikiforov. He’s watching Katsuki, and it’s easy to see why.

  
The emotions roll over the Japanese man’s face one by one.

  
Excitement.

  
Confusion.

  
Contentment.

  
And then the obligatory forced smile.

  
He hangs up. 

  
He walks back to the group, sliding his phone back into his pocket. 

  
“Family?” Plisetsky asks. 

  
“Mari,” Katsuki confirms. “But Minami will probably call soon, too, he’s probably heard.”

  
“Is something wrong?” This time, it’s the girl’s father that’s asking.

  
Katsuki shakes his head. “No, actually. Not at all. It’s good news really.”

  
“Is it good news we’re allowed to hear about?” Plisetsky snaps. “Because you didn’t exactly look ecstatic at the end of that phone call.”

  
“It’s a little complicated,” Katsuki says, taking a deep breath. “Japan just legalized gay marriage.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter is late, yes it's also short. I'm so sorry, life's been crazy and well, to be honest, this chapter was a hot mess. I've been fighting it long enough, so I decided to post it for better or worse. Next chapter should come sooner, and it should have a little more meat to it. But as always, thanks so much for reading, you guys are the best!


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